Grandfather Clock

In the white room, in the heat of August Summer, his head high on tales of brave Ulysses, in the white room did he rear back- his hand full of Louisville Slugger, lathe lumber approved by baseball’s Major Leagues- it was there in the white room with his fist taking hold of hard wood that he did he pull his arms back and smash at his grandfather's clock.

And destruction glorious.

And obliteration slow motion.

The shattering of holy glass in aftermath, the discordant concert of chime struck out of sequence, the interruption of pattern. It was perfect.

The clock, this old man, had stood here years untold, a complacent machine, smug in his superiority, assured of his self-worth and necessity, blind to obsolescence, the passage of time, the ride to the future.

A peacock in a feeding frenzy.

And the wood splintered superfine, breaking like bone, as he struck the timepiece over and again, in loving thrust, absolute crush, gears popping useless from their designated orbit, spring sprung loose like the curls of a girl on her back.

And forgotten like wrapping paper was every hour this clock had marked off, every rote melody recited for deaf ears, every badge earned for a generation dead or buried.

And he took the bat to his grandfather's clock, and he swung for the fences, and somewhere in the slaughter of a craft long-lost and useless, somewhere in the wreckage of the pendulum’s hopeless concenctricity, the madness of coaxial meter, somewhere as the second hands ticked away the moments like a leak in a bathroom sink, somewhere in the carnage he saw he had hit a home run.